


His Butler, Cemetery

by I_prefer_the_term_antihero



Category: Kuroshitsuji | Black Butler
Genre: Angst, Character Study, Gen, Inktober, Inktober 2018, Kuroinktober, Kuroinktober prompt 17, Prompt Fill, Spoilers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-17
Updated: 2018-10-22
Packaged: 2019-08-03 17:47:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,315
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16330718
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/I_prefer_the_term_antihero/pseuds/I_prefer_the_term_antihero
Summary: Four visits to the cemetery, each growing in emotional intensity, and spanning backwards in time.Spoilers for the current arc!!





	1. The Problem of the Flowers

**Author's Note:**

> "That was the first and last time that I heard him call his parents that way.”

 He never asked to go to the cemetery. Not once. Of course, Sebastian knew, it wasn’t really the kind of place one asks to go to in the first place.

The Young Master made a point to move forward, to leave the past behind, to be the best fakes they could be. Yet, in the weeks succeeding their return to the mansion, that same Young Master often...found himself there. Like it was never a place to which intended to go, but he somehow, by no fault of his own, ended up there anyway. Like it was some hellish Rome that all roads led to.

As they made simple trips into town, sometimes on their way, or on their way back, they would arrive at the cemetery, as if it had appeared through a fog—(of course the idea was absurd). Or the Young Master would ask to go somewhere alone, and the cemetery (or perhaps the ghosts within) would call him back. He must have thought it was a secret, but there was nothing in their contract about surveillance, and ensuring his Master’s safety was top priority. So Sebastian would watch him, and wait. And neither would say a word about it later.

His Young Master would never cry while he was there. Never break down. Never fall to his knees, overcome by emotion (like most humans do). Never whine that they were gone, or plead that they would come back. Never pray. He would just stand there, his cane in one hand, fingering his ring with the other, looking solemnly down at the graves, like he was an old man, who had watched his friends all die one by one, and he was the only one left—and while it was all very sad, he had no right to cry, because it made sense after all; death comes for us all in the end. Or maybe he was looking down at the porcelain headstone like it was something beneath him, (beneath the call of a king, the pawns that fell lifeless at his feet, but he was not shaken), beneath him, yet something that was judging him all the same. A curious notion; that one can be judged by things beneath the ground.

Perhaps most often than anything, he would bring flowers.

White lilies, and pink carnations, lavender, and geraniums, roses, lilac, and peonies.

He wondered if his Young Master knew what they all meant.

Purity and love for his mother. Devotion, determination, gentility for his father. Innocence and bravery for his brother.

Pretty little words that meant nothing to the boy who had lost them all.

Were they his reason for coming so often; to lay a pile of lifeless words at their feet?

Or were they merely an excuse for something greater? But an excuse for what greater thing? To stand there looking forlorn?

The Young Master was never one for sentiment. So why this? Why not leave them behind, burning in the past where they belonged? Or was there more sentiment in him than Sebastian initially thought, and the boy advertised?

Nevertheless, it was there his Master went, and it was Sebastian’s job to know why.

If he couldn’t, what kind of a butler would he be?

He cycled through the human emotions—(he kept them on a list).

Was it the obvious emotion: sorrow? Mourning? They were his family after all. Sebastian knew, (not personally, but on principle), that it was hard for one to lose their parents. He had certainly broken down, called their names, once before. But never again.

No, he was too stubborn, too detached for that. The Young Master didn’t like the muddiness of sorrow. It was too much effort. And wearing black wasn’t a clue; he wore black no matter the occasion.

Or perhaps he was always in mourning.

How about pity? Did he feel sorry for those in the ground?

No, there was nothing to make him feel sorry for them, and surely he thought they had it better.

Maybe envy, then. That was the most interesting explanation. But why come here every day to see them just to turn slowly green with envy? No. As much that would have made things more interesting, that couldn’t be it.

Was it anger? Some show of pride, injustice, distain? Was he angry at them for dying? For leaving him here alone?

He’d bookmark it. But it didn’t seem enough to drag him back here.

After much hard thought and observation, he guessed guilt was the most likely reason. It made more sense than the others at the very least. It was the only one that provided an adequate reason for him to continue to come back.

Not a very creative reason, but an adequate one.

He had survived. He, the weak one. The frail. His father who was strong, his mother who was kind, his brother who was…everything he was not. They were the ones to die. And he felt guilty for being the one to live—and maybe a smidge angry too.

So the flowers must be some convoluted way to overpower the stench of his own guilt.

The demon licked his lips. He couldn’t help it, things like guilt only made the soul more delicious.

Still, he had to curb his desires, and while guilt could be a fine delicacy, these visits were growing tiresome.

Now that he had enough information, he decided to come before the boy himself.

“Young Master?”

The boy didn’t look up from his paperwork.

“If I might, there is a personal question I would like to ask you.”

“You and your bloody personal questions,” he muttered, taking the papers off the desk, leaning back and putting his feet on the table, “Well, there’s no use dragging it on; out with it.”

“I have often noticed you visiting the cemetery.”

The boy froze.

“Why just this week—”

“You…You were spying on me?!” he spun around and stood up, slamming the paperwork on the desk.

Ah. If he wasn’t mistaken, this was the emotion called anger.

“Only in a manor of speaking. It is my job to see to your personal well-being is it not?”

“That doesn’t excuse you—you—”

“My apologies. Would you like me to amend our contract to include—?”

“No, no,” he groaned, slumping back into his chair, rubbing his temple.

“It appears I’ve crossed some line.”

“Like you can see the lines,” he scoffed under his breath.

The air was stirring with the boy’s half-baked emotions.

“Are you finished here?” the Young Master asked.

Sebastian mulled over how to phrase it. “I hate to drag this on, but I never did receive the opportunity to ask my question.”

“Your question wasn’t...? Ugh. Fine, what is it?”

“Would you like me to bring flowers to their graves?”

The boy blinked. “Huh?”

“I merely thought that would be much easier, seeing as you were never one for things like sentiment.”

The Young Master bit his lip, glaring at the nothing in particular in the corner of the room, “No, I would not. Now please leave me to do my work in peace.”

Sebastian bowed. “Yes my Lord. My apologies for even bringing it up.”

But a few days later, when he was having tea with Lizzie, The Young Master motioned for him to come close.

“Yes, Young Master?”

“That thing you mentioned the other day, about the flowers?”

“What of it?”

“Please do it.”

“Of course, my Lord.” He stood, “Happy to be of assistance.”

 

* * *

 

Sebastian knelt down before the headstones, setting the flowers in neat little piles by each.

The demon never understood why humans visited graves, much less why they left flowers for them. What are the dead to do with flowers? Are the flowers to die with them? Or, what comfort do flowers provide the living? Were they trying to make the stench of death more palpable… or less intoxicating?

Intoxicating, yes. The day when the house burned, and the two boys were stolen away from the bloodied corpses that were once loving parents…that day, death must have been intoxicating for him. He must have wished to die with them. But the boy didn’t get to die. In the days, weeks, following, as he was tortured and branded and scarred and starved, Death’s perfume placed beneath his nose, he didn’t get to taste it. 

And now death would become something far worse for him than it ever could have been before.

The days went by, then weeks, dragging into months, he continued to bring flowers. Sun, rain, snow, it didn’t matter. Of course, it never mattered anyway, but this chore was one of the few that carried on, that he was never told to relinquish, no matter how much time had gone by.  

Sometimes he would see others there, people mourning, a well-lit funeral, sometimes Abberline knelt down and prayed for the victims of their cases, or Lizzie came by to pay he respects to her aunt and uncle. But the person he would see most often, (understandably), was the Undertaker. The first time he had seen him, Undertaker had been more than a little curious:

“Now what would a creature like you be doing leaving flowers before gravestones?”

Sebastian turned to see him leaning against a nearby headstone.

“The Young Master has asked me to.” The demon smiled pleasantly.

“Ah, should have known. Always ‘Young Master’ this, ‘Young Master’ that. Must get tiring after a while.” He tapped a long nail on the stone.

“Like you wouldn’t believe,” he muttered. 

Undertaker laughed.

“Still,” he turned the sky, “I didn’t think the Earl was so sensitive.”

“What are you getting at?”

“Oh nothing, just wondering.” Undertaker chuckled. “Just thinking that maybe there’s hope for him after all.”

Sebastian rolled his eyes.

But when he returned the next week, Sebastian noticed a blue rose in the midst of the flowers he left on the brother's grave. Sometimes others would add to his display, but adding one, to a single grave, was particularly strange. He lifted it, twisting the stem in his fingers, trying to decipher who left it.

Red roses were for romance. White for innocence. Pink for grace. Yellow for friendship. And black for death.

And blue; for attaining the impossible.

 


	2. The Problem of the Ghosts

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "I am not so noble that I would stake my life for someone else. Nor am I so forgiving that I would sit by and allow someone to trample me. I am a selfish, and self-righteous human being! That's why! I...to clear my own shame...I used your power. Not for anyone else! But for myself!"

There are no such things as ghosts. 

His father told him so. 

When they were young, and every shadow was a dark presence, when every creak was a footstep, every far off noise a wail, their father would come, called by their terrified voices, and sit by their bedside to tell them there were no such things as ghosts. 

When Auntie Red told him that sometimes people who die in big mansions stay a little longer, and _isn’t your mansion rather big?_ their father told her to stop teasing them, and there were no such things as ghosts 

He promised.

The boy knows now there are demons, and even reapers, (even if he wouldn’t have believed in them either, back then) but he puts that record on repeat: _There are no such things as ghosts. There aren’t. Father promised. There are no such things as ghosts. No such things as ghosts. No such things as ghosts._

He needs it to be true. 

But when he first lays down at night, sometimes he can still feel his mother’s touch. 

Her hands are soft, and her words are softer as she leans in to kiss him goodnight. Her kisses are like raindrops, like butterflies. He can still hear her say _sweet dreams my little angels._

And he hopes to that means he’ll dream of her.

Because dreaming of her means dreaming of purity and love, of _one more candy couldn’t hurt_. Dreaming of her means dreaming of pretty white dresses, and frills in the wind. Dreaming of her means dreaming of the way her face lit up whenever she saw them, especially at times like their birthday; when the Christmas tree glittered with a thousand lights, and the ribbons on their presents shone beneath them. It means dreaming of how excited she was just to say those words: _happy birthday_. And with her smile, they believed it would be happy, that they were the most important people in the world to her. Dreaming of her means dreaming of someone who knows what it’s like to be sick and frail, and _less than I should be_ , but loved, and loving, all the same. 

And those are sweet dreams.

But when he feels her touch, when he dreams of her, now, she haunts him. 

Dreaming of her now means dreaming of the last time she kissed them goodnight, and the last morning the called their names with bright eyes. It means an echo of her voice that seemed so strong then, and so fragile now. Dreaming of her now means listening to her say what a wonderful celebration the evening will be, and dreaming of her now means dreaming of her silence at the time when the ‘wonderful’ should begin. Of the ticking minutes by when she didn’t come, and feeling each tick twisting his gut. Of walking downstairs, alone— _alone, so very alone_ —to see the lights of the tree, the reflection of the presents, flickering, breaking, and going dim. To see the world torn apart, painted red. Red lips, to even more red on her clothes, in her eyes, on the floor. A red embrace of death. Dreaming of her now leaves a hollow ache where love was. And it is worse to feel her touch in that space between sleeping and waking now, because her hands are cold and her voice colder, and it is not the comfort of a mother’s touch he feels, for his mother is no longer real, and if she is here, now, she is something else entirely. 

There are no such things as ghosts. 

But sometimes, as he’s trying to fall asleep, he can still hear his father’s words of wisdom.

He can still hear his voice, so full of confidence when speaking to all the other nobles; all those who wrong him, and right him, all the friends, and all the fakes. He didn’t care. Nobility was in his bones, and nobility poured from his lips, shone through his eyes, was in every syllable he wrote. 

He can still remember the warmth he felt when they sat on his lap, and he read them bedtime stories by the fire, and how they begged for _just one more._

And when he says _don’t grow up too fast_ , he hopes he’ll grow up to be like him.

Because growing up to be like him means devotion, determination, and gentility.

Growing up to be like him means winning despite the odds, it means having a kindness about you that is palpable, and a dignity and grandeur in every motion that he hopes he can one day embody. 

And, in that case, it is a good thing to grow up fast. 

But when he remembers those words now, they haunt him. 

Because he has grown up too fast. Forced into a mold, taken from the toys and candy, to paper and a forked tongue. Growing up is not a privilege, it is a chain. Growing up to be like him now means cheating and lying, manipulating the rest of the world, and bending it to go his way, because otherwise it won’t. It means his laugh is coarse, and his smile is a mask for the world to call him by. The dignity and grandeur are manufactured, a reflection of something that once was real, that he can never emulate himself. 

And when he hears those words of wisdom before sleep, they are a curse. They are not his father’s teachings, they are a restless toll for his sanity, telling him he got it all wrong, that he was never supposed to be the one to gain the title. 

_There are no such things as ghosts._

But sometimes, when he wakes up in the middle of the night, he can still see his brother’s eyes. 

Blue and glimmering with hope and heroism. Eyes whose light never seemed to falter, no matter the circumstances, and became brighter whenever they turned to him. Eyes that urged him to be stronger. 

And when those eyes, full of tears, say the words _We’ll be together forever,_  he hopes it’ll come true.

Because being together forever means innocence and bravery. It means he can take on the world, as long as Ciel is with him. There is no such thing as failure, and no such thing as sadness. Together forever means laughter and candy and chess. Together forever means that childhood never has to end. And while Ciel will be the earl, his brother will be no less, and he will be protected. He will have a reason to get back up when he falls, and keep standing. And he will have a reason to do something, be something, too. 

And when they were in those cages, when they were tortured and branded and scarred, it meant that the ending could still, even then, at its worst, be a happy one, as long as they were together. They were together. _We will always be together._

Like the sky and the stars. 

All it took a merciless hand, and a knife, to rip out the last pages of the story with the words written: _happily ever after_. And _we’ll be together forever_ means a bloodstain big enough to cover the world. And it does. It covers his entire world. It never leaves him. Being together forever is a ring Ciel swallowed, the one that said that he was the heir and the earl, the one they had to rip back out of his dead body. Being together forever means seeing those blue eyes go dim on that alter, just like those on the Christmas tree (and he doesn’t believe he’ll be happy anymore). And it means seeing those eyes staring back at him in the mirror every day, but their light has flickered and died in him too, and they are now brimming with darkness rather than light. The same eyes, but, of course, not the same. He was stained that day too, and one is not blue at all anymore, it is violet, and it does not glow with inner innocence, but with demonic intent. 

Being together forever is this name, this title he carries: “Ciel.” And together forever means he will always be a mirror, a tainted reflection. Never himself. Always this faded copy of Ciel. 

Together forever is this false image of someone who is not, and can never be, Ciel. Who is branded by the bloodstain, by the ring, branded by his brother, and his demons, who will never leave him as long as he lives. 

These creatures, whatever they are, don’t just come every once and a while. Their existence doesn’t ebb like the tides, or phase like the moon. Every night these images, this world of hurt, will not leave him. They burn, and they do haunt him. These images, these voices, these feelings… when _there is nothing there._

He tells himself that: _there’s nothing here. I’m alone._ He puts that on the record too. 

But the more he hears himself think it, the less he believes it. 

Every night his mother is at his bedside. Her hands are so soft you’d think they’re made of ashes. Her voice is so thin; you’d think it was just the wind. 

Every night his father stands before him, and his comfort crackles like fire, his eyes spark, but his form so dark you’d think that’s all he was made of: darkness. 

And worst of all, every night, his brother lays beside him. But he is not a living, breathing thing, but a bloodied corpse, animated by some sick puppet strings; a life severed, a life he stole for his own. 

And it is the demon’s fault. He will not deny the existence of demons. Not anymore. He won’t even try, won’t even start. It is the demon’s fault he’s dead. They wanted him there. Those people—can he even call them people?—wanted power, prowess, fame, money. But it was his brother, and his words that brought the evil into this world. 

Maybe he could have refused. Maybe he could have trod the path of innocence still. Kept his heart clean. 

But he took the demon’s hand. 

And now, he asks the demon to stay. When animate memories kneel by his bed, stand over his head, when they bloody his sheets, he asks the demon to stay with him. Not to kill them, because he knows they are not real. He just asks him to stay, because maybe the presence of something else real, even if it is a demon, makes him feel like maybe his father was right, maybe they aren’t real after all. 

But they still come. No matter what he tells himself, or what he believed the night before, tonight is another story. 

And he asks the demon to stay, because the demon is kinder than the ghosts are. 

When he goes to the cemetery, he isn’t sad for them, not anymore. He is too numb for sadness. He isn’t sorry, even if she should be. 

No, this is a much stronger, darker emotion. Something like anger, but colder. Something like distain but warmer. 

When he goes to the cemetery, it is not a question of his sorrow, it is a question of his sanity. As if he is trying to tell himself, _this is what’s real_. These gravestones. These names. _This is where they lie._ And they do lie. 

It is not for them. He is not coming to pray for their souls, or mourn them. 

He doesn’t ask the demon to take him there either. He isn’t sure why. He wouldn’t have questioned it if he did, and that may have been faster than this secrecy. Maybe it’s because it makes him look weak; like he cares, or like he needs someone to take care of him, or that he can’t talk to the dead alone. 

He’s been doing that for far too long. 

Maybe because this is one of those things he has to do alone. Something he has to convince himself, and anyone else’s presence will make it harder for him to argue with his past. 

He comes to the cemetery to beg the ghosts to leave him alone. He leaves flowers to give them something to tie them to this patch of earth, rather than his house. 

He might have screamed if he truly was weak, or hadn’t grown up in the way he did. Screamed, not because he was sad they were gone, or wished they would come back, but screamed at them for staying with him for too long. But he was stronger than that, so he stood, and stared, and looked on. As always, never letting them know there was anything darker in him. 

But they never answer his requests. 

He knows they are not there, beneath the ground. He knows that the headstones are just some trophy for dying, where they write your name in stone, but it could have belonged to anyone else, if you had won the race a little sooner, or a little later. 

He goes there because he knows that his father was wrong. Because they are not beneath the ground; they are in his house, in his head. His mansion is haunted. Those who died there do linger. Every shadow is their presence, every creak is their footsteps, every far off noise is their wails. He is sure of it. And though they may only exist for him, inside his head, it does not mean they are not real. 

One day it will get better. As time goes by, the ghosts’ visits will become less frequent, and he will believe in them less and less, convince himself once again that they are not real. That they may not be in the ground, but they don’t need to be inside his head anymore either, and the more he lets them take up space in his head, the more they distract from his mission now. So he breaks their hold on him, and they shatter like glass, and he continues on. He takes the demon’s hand, and the future. 

One day he will convince himself once again they are not real. But another day he will see a living ghost, outside his mind. He will see his brother, his brother’s corpse, animated. He will see all the dreams, nightmares and memories breathe again. And he will start to wonder once more if maybe it wasn’t all in his head, if maybe all those things he saw and felt were real after all. 

And it won’t just breathe either, the ghost will kill, and it will speak. It will voice all his insecurities and lies, and expose him for the copy he is. That just when he has started to believe the lie, (he’s always known, when you believe a lie long enough it becomes the truth), he will be reminded that he is not Ciel, that he never has been. And those words _we’ll be together forever_ echo, and resound, and haunt him all over again. 

But on that day, he will also realize that to say _ghosts are real_ is only half the story. The living can be ghosts too.

In fact, the living are the real ghosts. They may walk like everyone else, and talk like everyone else, but their bodies are haunted, dead, but alive, and they bring destruction wherever they go. They are more deadly than the dolls, and more ephemeral than the ghosts.

And his mansion is not, and never has been, haunted by their souls. 

It is haunted by his own.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for any and all silly grammar mistakes in this chapter, as well as the tense shift! I really wanted to get this posted so i wasn't nearly as focused on the grammar this time... I hope you still enjoyed it!

**Author's Note:**

> I have a new [tumblr](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/i-prefer-the-term-antihero) now! Feel free to come say hi!


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